


Harry Potter and the Glass Block Shower

by Vukovich



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: House Party, Marijuana, Masturbation in Shower, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28753020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vukovich/pseuds/Vukovich
Summary: What Harry Potter does in the shower during parties is everyone's business.And he quite enjoys it.Another experimental outline, and a companion piece toThe Seduction of One Draco Malfoy by a Green Velvet Chair.Written to Childish Gambino'sHeartbeat, if you're into that.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Harry Potter and the Glass Block Shower

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to ActorPotter ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActorPotter/pseuds/ActorPotter) and [Tumblr](https://hilunawrites.tumblr.com/)) and primaveracerezos ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/primaveracerezos/pseuds/primaveracerezos) and [Tumblr](https://primavera-cerezos.tumblr.com/)) for beta-reading.

Harry stepped through the bathroom door slowly with a soft knock, just in case someone was inside. Dinner had evolved into the usual Friday night party, and he hadn’t kept tabs on where everyone had drifted off to. He ran his tongue along his molars, chasing the taste of garlic and oregano. It was still early, but the din of conversation over music had gotten steadily louder as more people stepped through the flat’s brick Floo.

He flipped the light switch and the second switch for the exhaust fan. The soft light from above the mirror and the fixture above the shower illuminated the white tile room. Glistening enamel subway tile ran along the walls, a perfection in ceramic. In geometric juxtaposition, hexagonal white tiles covered the floor, their scattered chips and cracks a chiding mockery of the walls.

His thumb traced over the simple twist lock in the brushed nickel doorknob as he nudged the door almost closed, a finger-width gap left. A luxury, for sure. To have a lock and no need to use it. To be allowed privacy and decline in favor of trust would probably always be novel and exciting.

He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, scraping the soft skin gently as he eyed his destination. The glass block shower enclosure was the best thing in this flat, second only to the company. Absently, his hand patted down his trouser pocket, comforted by the small rectangle under the denim.

It had never not been routine, the showers during parties. Maybe a holdover from the dormitory showers, or the Quidditch locker room, or before then, but it had always happened. It was a given at any party that at some point, Harry would wander off for a shower. Well, if it was the usual crowd, and no one was drunk yet. And it was always more than a simple shower.

In front of him, the bathroom boasted a wide, round, quarter-circle glass block wall taking up a corner, its door facing the center of the room. A vanity and toilet faced it from the other side. On the wall opposite him, between the fixtures, was a high, louvered window. He reached out to turn the rough, corroded latch, pulling the frame open with a squeak. A cool, damp breeze rushed into the warm room, bringing the smell of approaching rain. Below the window, a fluffy, fresh towel sat wedged behind the towel rack, left out for him by a friend.

With a casual glance toward the almost-closed door, he opened the shower door, started the water, and shut it again. The oversized shower head sputtered to life as it rained down over the drain in the center of the enclosure. His hand slid into his pocket and drew out a small cotton drawstring bag with a bar of soap which he set on top of the glass block, just above head height.

A rumble of thunder trickled in through the window, and he paused to listen to it settle. Nobody else in the flat had probably heard it. Even he had barely noticed it over the rush of water against tile. The thunder faded, and the clatter of his belt buckle filled the silence, followed by his zipper and the rustle of his trousers.

His glasses dropped on top of his discarded trousers, followed by his t-shirt and boxers. Steam billowed above the glass block in a hazy cloud, shot through with darts of light viewed through astigmatism. He felt for the edge of the door, more by memory than sight, and pulled it open.

Warm, humid air followed the swing of the door and skimmed the front of his body, his nipples tightening at the sensation. Goosebumps rose on his forearms as he stepped in and shut the door behind him.

He turned to put his back to the corner of the shower, and faced the bathroom door. It was a curious kind of privacy. A voluntary illusion of isolation, really. It was part of the routine, and always had been. In the dormitory, in the locker room, at parties, it was always an open invitation. A silent offer he extended when conditions were right, which they usually were.

Anyone who wanted to watch him was welcome to do so, and most of them had. Anyone who wanted to do more than watch was welcome to ask, and they occasionally did. He rehearsed the routine as he leaned his head back into the water.

If they wanted him to open the shower door, they would knock. If they wanted to touch, they would ask. If he wanted that, too, they could do that. It was a rarity, but the possibility of it was intoxicating.

It was utterly decadent to be surrounded by people he trusted so much as to offer his body up with minimal discretion. A sumptuous kind of security, to be unguarded and vulnerable, but confident.

His fingers traced over various bottles on the floor along the tile wall, and he picked one up at random. A swipe with his wet fingertips dispersed the water droplets, proving it to be shampoo, not conditioner, and he squeezed out a generous dollop into his palm. _Coconut_. The jarringly tropical scent filled the space, an aromatic companion to the nebulous white steam. He lathered his thick hair, short fingernails working the suds against his scalp as he wondered whether the storm outside had reached him yet.

He tilted his head back again into the fall of water, and his hands followed the flow of slick suds down his body, one hand lingering to cup himself. His teeth found his bottom lip again as his fingers slid lower, between his thighs, and back up to his chest. The coconut scent lingered, and his hands threaded through his hair under the stream of water, ridding it of the shampoo.

Satisfied, his fingertips trailed up along the glass wall to the bar of soap in the small bag on top of the block. It wasn’t that other soap was bad, but his was better, and had the added benefit of a predictable scent. He didn’t mind if his hair smelled like shampoo roulette; it was part of the game. But his skin needed to smell like him.

The little rectangle of plain lye soap slid out of the bag, and he set the empty sack back on the wall. Holding the bar under the spray, he rubbed it between his hands to work up a thick lather. The lather was the other reason for this particular soap. It made bubbles so fine, they were indistinguishable with the naked eye; even with his glasses on.

He stepped forward, letting the hot water flow down his back while he spread the dense foam across his chest, under his arms, and down his abdomen. The bar of soap slid along one side of his groin, then the other, leaving a slick line on each side. He set the bar aside and slid a hand down his backside, letting soap and water flow down his ass.

Both hands slid over his hips, drifting down, then, changing course in unison to skim up his chest catching his nipples between fingers. His toes spread against the tile floor, a testing grip. His cock was a heavy, patient weight that drew his hands slowly back downward.

He sighed as his wet palms ran over the lines of soap in his groin, a thick lather coating him as he stroked. The fan in the ceiling above him dropped in pitch and resumed as someone opened the door and closed it behind them.

His hands’ movements slowed as he waited. Maybe they would knock, and he would open the door to let them watch him stroke his hardening cock. Maybe they would ask to touch, and he’d most likely let them.

But maybe the toilet would flush, the sink would run, and they would leave. The anticipation of whether they wanted him made his cock throb in his hand.

A lanky, black-clad form walked past the glass walls to the toilet. The rasp of a Muggle lighter bounced off the tile walls, followed by the tap of the toilet lid closing over the seat, and someone sitting down. 

A white-violet plume drifted over to mingle with the steam and disappear into the fan, followed by a cloying, earthy odor that clung in the back of his mouth with a hint of pine. If he held his hand above the glass block wall, he knew an engraved silver cigarette holder with a lit spliff would eventually slide between his fingers. And if a knock sounded on the shower door, he’d open it. To each his own, upon request.

He ignored the disjointed black silhouette on the other side of the glass in favor of the lush lather between his thighs. His skin flushed as he worked the suds over his cock with one hand, and the other slid lower to cup his sac. 

His toes spread and gripped the tile again, and he wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could come with their shoes on.

His fist shortened its strokes, and he ran slick fingers over the tip of his cock. His other hand braced against the cold glass block. He was distantly aware that anyone in the room could see his hand and hear his movements, but knew none of them minded in the slightest.

It was a kind of participation, their awareness. A tacit understanding that permeated him like the warmth of the water down his back. Like being held by them from a room away.

The pitch in the whirr of the fan dropped, followed by a burst of conversations, then the hush of flowing water again. A softly hummed moan vibrated his chest as the tension in his hips gathered.

It was an offering of sorts. A solitary _Thank You_ to everyone who understood him this well. A pleasure he felt he’d been gifted, and it was only fitting he enjoyed it.

His eyes closed as he leaned back once more under the shower head, letting hot water flow down his chest to his hard length. Breaths growing ragged, he concentrated on the threads of hot pressure gathering at the base of his spine. 

His toes curled against the floor as the tension wound and broke, a hummed shout muffled behind bitten lips. His release flowed away with the coursing water as his cock throbbed in his hand in time with his slowing strokes.

With a shuddering sigh, he squeezed his shaft and slid his hands up his flanks to his chest. The water had grown cool against his flushed skin and he reached out to turn it off. His hand reached for the glass door, but hesitated as the air pressure in the room dropped again.

He waited, rivulets streaming down his skin.

“Psst! There’s cake!”


End file.
